Early 134 AC
Over the next six moons, Rickon and Maester Kennet refined their compass design, moving from the crude bowl-and-needle prototype to something far more practical. They crafted a proper case of polished wood, with a glass cover to protect the magnetized needle. The face beneath the needle bore careful markings for all cardinal directions, with additional lines to indicate degrees between them.
"The housing must be perfectly level for accurate readings," Rickon explained as they tested their third iteration. His small fingers made minute adjustments to the gimbal system they'd devised, a ring-like structure that allowed the compass to remain horizontal even when tilted.
Kennet's eyes shone with pride as he watched the boy work. "Remarkable. Simply remarkable."
They tested the compass throughout Winterfell and its surroundings, confirming its reliability in various conditions.
While their work on the compass continued, Rickon had also begun his agricultural experiment. Farmer Torrhen, a weathered man with calloused hands and a skeptical squint, had reluctantly agreed to try Rickon's strange new farming method on a portion of his land just outside Winterfell's walls.
"Four-field rotation," Rickon had explained, kneeling in the soil beside Torrhen. "Instead of our traditional two-field system where half the land lies fallow each year, we divide the land into four sections."
Torrhen had scratched his graying beard. "And what good would that do, young lord?"
"The first field grows wheat or rye," Rickon had said, drawing in the dirt with a stick. "The second, turnips or other root vegetables. The third, barley or oats. And the fourth, clover or beans."
"No fallow field?" Torrhen had asked, his brow furrowed with concern.
"No fallow needed," Rickon had replied confidently. "The clover and beans put nutrients back into the soil that the grain crops take out. The turnips help clear the soil of weeds and provide winter feed for livestock."
Now, six moons later, Rickon stood at the edge of Torrhen's experimental fields, satisfaction warming his chest despite the autumn chill. The difference was unmistakable. The traditional fields showed the expected yield, but the four-field sections displayed noticeably healthier crops, with fuller heads of grain and more robust turnips.
"Never seen anything like it," Torrhen admitted, standing beside him. The farmer's initial skepticism had given way to cautious enthusiasm. "Thought for sure the soil would be spent without a proper fallow year, but these crops..." He shook his head in wonder.
"And the livestock?" Rickon asked, already knowing the answer from his regular visits.
"Thriving on the turnip feed," Torrhen confirmed. "Fatter than I've ever seen them this close to winter. And the manure they're producing, spreading it back on the fields has only made things better."
Maester Kennet made notes in his ledger, carefully documenting the yields. "By my calculations, these experimental fields have produced nearly thirty percent more food than the traditional method, while using the same amount of land."
Rickon nodded, watching a group of field hands harvesting the last of the season's barley. His mind was already racing ahead to the next season, to scaling up the implementation. The North needed this—needed every advantage it could get to face the coming winter.
The plow had been another triumph. Constructed to Rickon's specifications by Jed, Winterfell's blacksmith, it featured a curved moldboard that efficiently turned the soil over rather than merely scratching the surface. The heavy northern soil, often resistant to traditional plows, yielded readily to the improved design.
"Takes half the oxen to pull it," Torrhen had marveled the first time they'd tested it. "And cuts twice as deep."
The results spoke for themselves. Fields plowed with Rickon's design showed improved drainage, better aeration, and ultimately stronger crop growth.
"Your father wishes to see you," Maester Kennet said, breaking into Rickon's thoughts. "I believe he wants to hear from you directly about the success of your experiments."
Rickon felt a flutter of anxiety in his stomach. Despite the obvious success of his innovations, his father remained cautious about implementing them more broadly. Cregan Stark was not a man who embraced change easily, even when that change promised prosperity.
"Come, Canis," Rickon called. The direwolf emerged from between rows of harvested barley, having grown considerably over the past six moons. No longer a pup, Canis now stood as tall as Rickon's waist, his obsidian fur gleaming in the afternoon sun.
As they walked back toward Winterfell, Rickon's mind turned to his next projects. The compass and agricultural improvements were just the beginning. He'd begun sketching designs for a more efficient water wheel, one that could power not just grain mills but also mechanized hammers for metalworking. And beyond that, he had ideas for improved glass production, better roads, even primitive sewage systems for Winterfell and Winter Town.
But all of that would have to wait until he convinced his father that his knowledge, whatever its mysterious source, was a blessing for the North, not a curse to be feared.
The guards at Winterfell's gate nodded respectfully as he passed. Rickon noted how their eyes lingered on Canis with a mixture of awe and unease. The direwolf had become as much a symbol of Rickon's unusual status as his innovations, a physical manifestation of the Old Gods' favor, or so many believed.
"Do you think Father will be pleased?" Rickon asked Maester Kennet as they crossed the courtyard.
The old maester adjusted his chain thoughtfully. "The results speak for themselves, young lord. Even the most traditional mind must acknowledge success when it stands before him, ripe for harvest."
x________________x
Lord Stark's solar was warm compared to the autumn chill outside, a fire crackling in the hearth and casting long shadows across the stone floor. Rickon stood before his father's desk, hands clasped behind his back, Canis a silent sentinel beside him. Maester Kennet stood to his right, ledger open in his hands, while his father's piercing gaze seemed to look straight through him.
"So," Cregan said, breaking the silence. "Six moons have passed since you came to me with your... unusual knowledge." He leaned forward, elbows on the desk. "Tell me what you've accomplished."
Rickon took a deep breath. This was his chance to prove the value of what he'd been given. "Father, we've successfully created three tools that could greatly benefit the North," he began, his voice steady despite his racing heart. "The compass, the moldboard plow, and the four-field crop rotation system."
"Explain," Cregan said, his expression revealing nothing.
"The compass first," Rickon stepped forward, placing the polished wooden box on his father's desk. "We've refined the design considerably since our first prototype."
He opened the lid to reveal the magnetized needle spinning briefly before settling to point north. The face beneath was carefully marked with directional indicators, the whole assembly suspended in a brass gimbal system that kept it level even when tilted.
"No matter where this is taken, the needle will always point north," Rickon explained. "For travelers in snowstorms, for ships at sea without stars—it could save countless lives."
Cregan studied the device, his brow furrowed. He tilted it slightly, watching as the needle maintained its orientation. "And you're certain of its reliability?"
"We've tested it extensively," Maester Kennet interjected, stepping forward. "Throughout Winterfell and its surroundings. The needle never wavers."
"Show me," Cregan said, rising from his chair.
Rickon picked up the compass and walked to the eastern window. "See, Father? The needle points away from the window, north." He walked to the opposite side of the room. "And now it points toward the window, still north."
Cregan followed, his eyes never leaving the compass. He took it from Rickon's hands, turning it this way and that, watching as the needle consistently returned to its northward orientation.
"Impressive," he admitted finally. "Though I'm not certain how often our people find themselves lost in their own lands."
"It's not just for the North, Father," Rickon said eagerly. "Think of our ships sailing to Braavos or even further. With this, they could navigate on cloudy days, through fog, even at night without stars."
"Safer journeys mean more trade," Maester Kennet added. "More reliable shipments, fewer losses."
Cregan handed the compass back to Rickon, his expression thoughtful. "And the plow? Torrhen has been singing its praises, I hear."
Rickon nodded, encouraged. "The moldboard design cuts deeper into our heavy northern soil and turns it over completely. Fields plowed with it drain better and yield stronger crops." He unfurled a scroll on his father's desk, revealing detailed drawings of the plow's construction. "It requires fewer oxen to pull yet accomplishes more work."
"Jed says he can make more with the proper materials," Rickon continued. "We could equip many of our farmers before spring planting."
"And the cost?" Cregan asked, ever practical.
"Initial construction requires more iron," Rickon admitted. "But the increased yields and reduced need for draft animals more than compensate over time."
Cregan studied the drawings, his finger tracing the curved moldboard design. "Hmm. And this crop rotation system? Explain it to me again."
Rickon moved to another scroll, spreading it across the desk. It showed a field divided into four sections, each labeled with different crops. "Traditional methods leave half our fields fallow each year to recover fertility," he explained. "This system uses all the land every year, rotating crops in a specific sequence."
He pointed to each section in turn. "First year: wheat or rye. Second: turnips. Third: barley or oats. Fourth: clover or beans." His finger traced the rotation pattern. "The clover and beans restore nutrients to the soil that the grains deplete. The turnips help clear weeds and feed livestock through winter."
"And this works?" Cregan asked, skepticism evident in his voice. "Without depleting the soil?"
"The results are undeniable, my lord," Maester Kennet said, opening his ledger. "I've documented everything meticulously. The experimental fields yielded thirty percent more food than traditional methods, using the same amount of land."
"Thirty percent?" Cregan's eyebrows rose. "That's a significant increase."
"And the livestock fed on turnips through winter showed better health and produced more milk and meat," Rickon added. "The manure they produce goes back to the fields, further improving soil fertility."
Cregan walked to the window, gazing out at the expanse of the North. For a long moment, he said nothing, his broad shoulders tense beneath his furs.
"The old ways have sustained us for thousands of years," he said finally, his voice low. "Through countless winters, through wars and famines."
Rickon's heart sank. Was his father going to reject everything despite the clear success?
But Cregan turned, and to Rickon's surprise, there was a glimmer of something like pride in his eyes. "Yet the North must adapt if it is to survive. The fever took too many of our people. We need every advantage we can muster."
He returned to his desk, studying the drawings again. "You've proven your case, son. These innovations work. The question now is how broadly to implement them."
Relief washed through Rickon like a warm wave. "I've been thinking about that, Father. We could start with the farms closest to Winterfell, train those farmers in the new methods, then have them help spread the knowledge to others."
"And the compasses?" Cregan asked.
"We should call House Manderly and introduce this to them," Rickon suggested. "Let's have them utilise the prototype, but keep it a secret. If it works as intended that we have discovered a huge advantage for our ships that we must retain for as long a as we can"
Cregan nodded slowly. "Sensible." He looked at Maester Kennet. "You've observed all this first-hand?"
"I have, my lord," the maester confirmed. "And documented everything. Young Lord Rickon's knowledge has proven both accurate and practical." He hesitated, then added, "In truth, I've never seen anything like it. The precision of his designs, the depth of his understanding... it goes beyond anything taught at the Citadel."
"And you believe this knowledge comes from the Old Gods?" Cregan asked directly.
Maester Kennet shifted uncomfortably. "I cannot say with certainty, my lord. But I can think of no other explanation. The boy was dying, then suddenly recovered with knowledge no child his age could possibly possess."
A faint smile tugged at the corner of Cregan's mouth as he regarded his son. "Well, I suppose that settles it then. The Old Gods have blessed my son with the mind of a maester but the body of a child." He leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking beneath his weight. "Tell me, Rickon, did these mysterious Old Gods happen to mention how to keep your head attached to your shoulders when winter comes and you can't wield a sword to save your life?"
The unexpected jest caught Rickon off guard. His father's humor was rare as summer snow, and just as startling when it appeared.
"I... no, Father," Rickon admitted, fighting the urge to look at his feet.
"A pity," Cregan said, rising from his chair with fluid grace that belied his size. "All these clever ideas about plows and compasses, but not a word about defending yourself." He shook his head in mock disappointment. "The Old Gods have curious priorities."
Maester Kennet coughed politely, trying to hide his amusement.
"All this talk of crop rotation and steel forging is well and good," Cregan continued, moving around the desk to stand before Rickon, "but I believe it's time we tested something else entirely. Come with me, let's see if these Old Gods of yours have improved your swordsmanship as well."
A thrill shot through Rickon's body, his heart suddenly racing like a wild stallion. Swordsmanship with his father? The legendary Cregan Stark, whose blade was said to move faster than the eye could follow? He straightened his spine, trying to contain his excitement.
"Now, Father?" he asked, unable to keep the eagerness from his voice.
Canis rose beside him, the direwolf's muscles tensing with anticipation. Through their bond, Rickon felt a surge of predatory excitement, the wolf's desire to test itself against a worthy opponent mirroring his own.
"No time like the present," Cregan replied, his eyes glinting with challenge. "Unless you'd prefer to discuss crop yields and soil fertility for another hour?"
"I'll fetch my training sword," Rickon said, already turning toward the door.
Cregan's hand fell on his shoulder, surprisingly gentle. "Use mine today. It's time you felt the weight of real steel, even if it's blunted."
Maester Kennet cleared his throat. "My lord, perhaps the boy is still too young for—"
"The boy," Cregan interrupted, "has been lecturing us about metallurgy and agricultural techniques for six moons. I think he can manage to swing a sword without cutting off his own foot." He looked down at Rickon. "Can't you, son?"
"Yes, Father," Rickon replied, trying to keep his voice steady despite the excitement bubbling inside him.
They made their way to the training yard, Canis padding silently alongside. The afternoon was waning, the autumn sun casting long shadows across the packed earth. A few guards paused in their drills to watch as the Lord of Winterfell and his young son entered the yard.
Cregan nodded to Ser Hallis, who stood observing a pair of young men sparring. "Hallis, bring me two practice swords. The lighter ones, but not the wooden toys."
The master-at-arms raised an eyebrow but complied without comment, returning moments later with two blunted steel swords. He handed the larger to Lord Stark and, with visible reluctance, the smaller to Rickon.
The sword was heavier than Rickon expected. His arm dipped momentarily before he adjusted his grip, finding the balance. It was longer than his usual wooden training sword, the metal cool against his palm despite the leather wrapping.
"Stand clear," Cregan instructed the gathered onlookers, who had formed a loose circle around them. To Rickon's surprise, his father dropped into a defensive stance. "Come at me, son. Let's see what you can do."
Rickon hesitated, suddenly aware of all the eyes upon him. Canis moved to the edge of the circle, crimson eyes fixed on the proceedings with unnerving intensity.
"Don't think," Cregan advised, his voice low. "Just move."
Drawing a deep breath, Rickon lunged forward, swinging his sword in a controlled arc toward his father's side. Cregan parried effortlessly, the clash of steel ringing through the yard. The force of the impact traveled up Rickon's arm, but he maintained his grip.
"Again," Cregan commanded.
Rickon attacked once more, this time feinting high before striking low. His father's blade intercepted his with casual precision, but Rickon thought he saw a flicker of something, surprise perhaps, in the older man's eyes.
They continued, Rickon attacking while Cregan defended. With each exchange, Rickon felt more comfortable with the weight of the sword, his movements becoming more fluid. Something strange was happening, his body seemed to know what to do, responding to his father's movements with an instinctive grace that belied his six years.
Through his bond with Canis, Rickon sensed a primal understanding of combat, the way a predator reads its prey's movements, anticipating rather than reacting. He felt stronger, faster, his senses somehow sharper. He could almost see the pattern of his father's defense, the rhythm of his parries.
"Enough defense," Cregan said suddenly. "Let's see how you fare when the wolf comes to you."
Without warning, his father attacked. The blunted blade whistled through the air toward Rickon's shoulder. By all rights, it should have connected, no child could move quickly enough to avoid Cregan Stark's strike. But Rickon did, stepping aside with a fluid grace that drew murmurs from the watching men.
His father's eyes narrowed slightly, the only indication of his surprise. He attacked again, a complex sequence of strikes that drove Rickon backward across the yard. The boy parried one, dodged another, and when the third came, he ducked beneath it and darted to the side.
Rickon felt his lips curving into a smile. This was nothing like training with Ser Hallis, who always held back. His father was testing him, truly testing him, and he wasn't failing.
"Your footwork is better than it was," Cregan observed, circling slowly. "But you're still telegraphing your intentions."
As if to demonstrate, he lunged suddenly, his blade catching Rickon's sword near the hilt and twisting. The weapon flew from Rickon's grasp, landing in the dirt several feet away.
"Never lose your sword," Cregan said, stepping back to allow Rickon to retrieve it.
As Rickon bent to pick up the fallen blade, he felt a rush of determination. He might not match his father's skill or strength, but he had other advantages, his size, his speed, and most importantly, the strange awareness that flowed through his bond with Canis.
When he faced his father again, Rickon's stance had changed, becoming lower, more balanced. He felt Canis's presence in his mind, the direwolf's predatory instincts merging with his own.
"Come," Cregan invited, his blade held before him.
This time, Rickon didn't hesitate. He moved forward, not with a child's awkward charge but with the controlled aggression of a much more experienced fighter. His blade met his father's in a series of quick exchanges, the sound of steel on steel filling the yard.
For nearly a minute, they traded blows, Rickon moving with uncanny quickness, anticipating rather than reacting. He wasn't close to matching his father, no one could truly match Cregan Stark with a blade, but he was doing far better than anyone expected.
As the sparring intensified, something strange happened. The training yard seemed to fade around Rickon, the onlookers' murmurs growing distant. His awareness narrowed to just his father's movements, the weight of steel in his hand, and the rhythm of their dance.
The world slowed. He saw not just his father's blade but the subtle shift of weight that preceded each strike. The shadows at the edge of the yard seemed to pulse with each heartbeat, calling to him, offering secrets of movement and space.
Rickon felt himself slipping deeper into this trance like state. His body moved with fluid grace that shouldn't belong to a child of six namedays. He was both himself and something else, wolf and boy, predator and prey, shadow and substance. Canis's consciousness pressed against his own, not taking over but merging, enhancing.
He darted beneath a high strike, twisted away from a low one, his small size becoming an advantage. The shadows seemed to whisper, showing him where to step, when to strike, it begged him to reach out to them.
To cut all that lays before them.
A sudden flash of steel, his father changing patterns, and Rickon's blade went spinning through the air. The connection snapped. The world rushed back in full force, sound and color returning with dizzying intensity.
He stood there, chest heaving, sweat plastering his dark hair to his forehead despite the autumn chill. His body hummed with energy, blood singing in his veins.
The blunted edge of his father's sword tapped Rickon's ribs. "Dead," he declared.
"You have skill, boy," Cregan said, the corner of his mouth lifting in a rare smile. "More than you should."
Rickon couldn't help the fierce grin that spread across his face, matching his father's own. "Thank you, Father."
A sound drew his attention upward. Cheering, not just from the guards who had gathered to watch, but from the covered walkway above the yard. There stood Alysanne, his little sister Sarra bundled in her arms, her face bright with pride. Beside her, Aunt Sara was waving enthusiastically.
"Again," Rickon said, reaching for the fallen sword, the energy still coursing through his veins. "Please, Father."
For the briefest moment, something like approval flickered in his father's eyes, quickly masked by his usual stern expression. "As you wish," he said, resuming his stance.
As they squared off again, Rickon caught Canis's crimson gaze across the yard. The direwolf hadn't moved, hadn't made a sound, yet Rickon felt its approval flowing through their bond. Whatever this strange gift was, this merging of minds, this shadow-sense, it was growing stronger.
They continued for another half hour, Cregan demonstrating techniques and Rickon absorbing them with remarkable speed. By the time they finished, a small crowd had gathered to watch the unusual spectacle of their lord sparring with his young son.
"Enough for today," Cregan finally declared, lowering his sword. "Return the blade to Ser Hallis."
Rickon did as instructed, his arms trembling slightly from exertion but his mind buzzing with satisfaction. When he turned back, he found his father watching him with that same inscrutable expression.
"You move well for a boy your age," Cregan said, his voice carefully neutral. "Better than you should."
"Thank you, Father," Rickon replied, trying to read what lay behind those gray eyes so like his own.
"Don't thank me yet," Cregan responded. "Beginning tomorrow, you'll train with me directly, one hour each morning before you resume your work with Maester Kennet." A hint of that rare smile touched his lips. "If the Old Gods saw fit to fill your head with knowledge, the least I can do is ensure the rest of you keeps pace."
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Hope you enjoyed the chapter!
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